Not because he had won. Because a man like Bradley believes that silence is tantamount to surrender, and I needed him to believe that. I needed him to be comfortable. I needed him to be carefree.
« Very well, » I repeated. I took a pen out of my pocket. « I’ll sign. »
Bradley’s smile spread like sunlight over rot.
« An intelligent man. »
I signed.
I took care of it. I cleaned it. I finished it.
Then I got up and left the envelope on the table.
On the threshold, I stopped, like a man who remembers something minor.
« One thing, » I said. « Singapore’s authorization for the turbine shipment. It’s expected on Tuesday. »
Bradley made a disdainful hand gesture without even looking.
« We’ll take care of it, Thomas. The system handles it. Go ahead. »
I nodded once.
And he went out.
I didn’t feel sad.
I did not feel the crushing weight of unemployment.
I felt anticipation.
Because Bradley hadn’t simply fired me.
He had pulled the pin on a grenade, thrown it into the server room and locked the door.
He thought that « the system » handled customs clearance in Singapore.
The system didn’t handle anything.
I took care of it.
And my digital signature — the one that is necessary to maintain the validity of certain certifications — was revoked as soon as I stepped outside.
This shipment of turbines was going to remain on the dock until it rotted away.
I tidied my desk in twenty minutes.
I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. The office was silent: heads bowed, eyes averted. In places like Vertex, the smell of blood spreads faster than Wi-Fi.
I took the framed photo of my wife, my lucky stapler and my Rolodex.
Physics.
The one Bradley made fun of.
The one that contained the personal mobile phone numbers of all the major logistics brokers, from Shanghai to Rotterdam.
I headed towards the elevator.
I pressed the lobby button.
And my phone vibrated in my pocket.
An automated alert.
Access revoked. Work email.
It had begun.
Day 1 — Wednesday
I slept until 9am.
For the first time in ten years, I didn’t get up at five o’clock to check the markets and expedition dashboards. I made coffee, sat on my porch, and watched the birds as if I were auditioning for a more peaceful life.
It lasted exactly seventy-five minutes.
My personal phone rang at 10:15.
Sarah.
Junior logistics coordinator. Bright young man. Hard worker. Convinced that effort mattered in the American business world.
“Thomas… oh, thank God,” she murmured. Her voice betrayed sobs. “I know you’re gone. I saw security, but I don’t know what to do. The dashboard is flashing red. The shipment for Apex Industries—the generators—is stuck in Hamburg. They say the hazardous materials declaration form (Form 44B) is missing.”
I took a slow sip of coffee.
« Hello Sarah, » I said calmly. « I no longer work for Vertex Global. »
« I know, I know, » she said quickly. « But Bradley is in a meeting and the system says you have the authorization code for 44B. I don’t have anything. »
I gazed at my garden. The sunlight. The birds. The peace.
And a company that had just given itself a loaded weapon and pulled the trigger.
« I’m fine, » I said quietly. « My access has been revoked. Bradley said the new algorithm handles that. Tell Bradley to check the algorithm. »
« He… he’s yelling at everyone, » she whispered. « He says we’re incompetent. »
« I’m sorry, » I said, and I truly meant it. « But I signed a legal document yesterday. I’m forbidden from doing any work for the company whatsoever. If I give you that code, I’ll lose my severance pay. Do you understand? »
Silence.
Then, in a hollow voice: « Yeah. I guess so. »
I hung up.
I wasn’t reassured for Sarah. She was collateral damage. But Bradley didn’t declare war on me. He declared war on competence.
And competence always ends up being rewarded.
The contract with Apex Generators was worth $12 million.
For each hour that these units remained immobilized in Hamburg, Apex charged Vertex a penalty of $10,000.
I poured another cup of coffee.
Day 3 — Friday
Vertex did not call.
Not yet.
Either they were too proud, or Bradley was too afraid to admit that he had destroyed the only person who understood how the engine worked.
But my personal email inbox started ringing – not from Vertex, but from suppliers.
The messages arrived like distress signals.
Thomas, my friend, where are you? Invoice 492 has been rejected. — Davos, Greece.
Mr. Miller, please provide the route of the heavy-lift vessel. Vertex Ops is not responding. — Captain Holloway Marque.
Customs clearance confirmation required as soon as possible. The port refuses to release the goods. — Rotterdam broker.
I didn’t reply.
Impossible.
The confidentiality agreement was unassailable.
Bradley wanted silence. Fine. Let him have it.
Then the worst happened.
Friday, 2:00 PM
Number unknown. Area code 212.
New York.
It was Ironclad.
The merger was expected to be finalized next Friday.
I let the message go to voicemail.
Five minutes later, it rang again.
Same number.
I hung up.
« Good morning. »
« Is this really Thomas Miller? » A woman’s voice — dry, professional, without embellishment.
« Speaking. »
« I’m Eleanor Vance, » she said. « Director of Risk at Ironclad. »
My spine straightened automatically. Risk management agents only call when there’s a fire.
« We are currently in the final stages of due diligence for the acquisition of Vertex, » she continued. « I know you no longer work there. »
« That’s correct, » I replied neutrally. « And I can’t discuss Vertex’s internal affairs. I signed a confidentiality agreement. »
“We don’t care about the confidentiality agreement,” she said sharply, in a firm tone. “I’m reviewing a report indicating that three major shipments are held up in customs, and the penalties have impacted Vertex’s cash flow.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
« We’re buying this company in seven days, Mr. Miller. We’re buying a logistics network. If that network fails, we’re buying a corpse. »
I remained silent.
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